


inventory

by asolitarygrape



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:19:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5461220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asolitarygrape/pseuds/asolitarygrape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had gotten adept enough at breaking into any building, but Steve never locked the windows anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	inventory

It had been difficult.

For the past week, each time Steve found a window open or some container of food missing it had left the growing hole through his chest stretching by degrees. 

He didn't want to think of it as a hole in his chest. It wasn't the sort of ache that he was used to when he was upset. This was a new beast, a hole that was filled by the force still impaling him, still held open and somehow absorbing all of his worries and continuing to swell like blistering wood. 

The vampire analogy had been fun once he'd thought of it. A 96 year old, inhabiting a body barely out of it's 20s, that stalked out into the night hunting after various other ghouls and innocents, compelled by anger and need. Maybe SHIELD didn't think of targets in terms of a scale from ghoul to innocent. And maybe the press lauding him didn't see his anger, or his need. But Steve thought it fit perfectly. And the stake through his heart, that kept needling at him, wasn't working to take him down. He wasn't pinned down to anything. 

That's what his mother had always told him. When he'd been twelve and he'd sneaked into a theatre playing Dracula, he'd come home as if everything was exceptionally normal. For the next three nights he'd had nightmares. Not about being a victim, or some hapless idiot like Harker. For the next three nights every time his chest ached or he began coughing, he worried if that's what it felt like. Dying, turning into something else. And when his mother had finally caught him crying in bed she'd expected much worse than being asked about vampires.

But mom had told him, without a flinch. Sarah had given a smile, because if they both pretended that the real issue was a vampire, they could act as if the bigger issues weren't there. And, of course, Sarah felt the need to point out that Bram Stoker was Irish. 

When he'd asked, Sarah had corrected him. The wooden stake wasn't to kill the vampire, it was to hold him down. That was why they needed to stake the vampire while it was in its coffin, to keep it from escaping while they beheaded or burned it.

So that now, 84 years later, Steve was able to diagnose that he was walking around with a disconnected stake. 

He trudged from one room to the other, wishing he had more space to pace in. His apartment was small, because he didn't need more than basics no matter what Stark or the others kept insisting to him. He'd be happy to live in a space this size, he'd lived in smaller ones. But his whole body felt cramped, his stake felt sore. 

He considered going for a walk but couldn't justify wandering the streets unless he had something to do. His ugly mug was plastered all over NYC these days, there was no where he felt he could really disappear. Some gnawing part of him told him he had to leave the apartment, so Bucky would come inside. Because then Bucky would sneak in, take some food, mill around, inevitably knock something over or take something he needed. And if Steve was home he wouldn't do that, Steve swallowed back a taste like battery acid. 

At first it hadn't felt like a stake. It had been pure elation. Small signs that Buck was close, that he was willing to rely on Steve, that he was somehow healing. But Steve decided over the past six months that his heart hadn't been touched in long enough to realize what had been happening to it. And by month fourteen, each small reminder that Bucky was using him and not communicating with him shook loose whatever feeling of wholeness and left instead the gaping wound where the stake fit through.

He decided to go out. Fuck if people saw him, or stopped him. His apartment wasn't his. It was a laboratory where he would set small baits and traps and he would need to leave the experiment sitting before he could come back and make observations. And then he could draw his conclusions. Whether his razor got used, or the milk went missing, or socks. Thousands of goddamn socks. He was always buying fucking socks.

Almost immediately after Steve slammed the door, getting more bitter at each time he left the apartment, Bucky perked up. He'd been waiting about forty five minutes to see what Steve would do. He normally didn't wait that long, but someone had mentioned on the street about the holidays creeping up and Bucky had his own plans to consider.

He had gotten adept enough at breaking into any building, but Steve never locked the windows anymore. He had assumed at first it was because Steve had understood his request to come inside, but recently Steve seemed more and more angry with him and he'd pulled back on how far he was willing to push his luck.

He crept into the apartment from the fire escape, shaking out the wetness from his coat and immediately taking off his shoes. There was a meticulous ritual to consider here. He didn't like leaving a mess in Steve's apartment. Steve might have gotten angry at that, and it seemed impolite either way.

He stalked over to the kitchen, looked through the cabinets, decided if there was anything he needed. It looked like Steve had pretty much anything he could want. He'd started stocking things better after Bucky had started removing items. Which was good. Before Steve wasn't prepared at all. Bucky had assumed he was depressed.

Bucky had tried nudging him in the right direction of what he should or shouldn't be keeping around. Certain types of beans, crushed tomatoes, a variety of every type of pasta or rice...cheap things. Things Bucky knew they could always afford, and would keep. He nudged his finger in the cabinet, then took his pen out. On an old spiral of note cards he drew out tic marks. He took inventory. Then, deciding they had plenty of cans of tuna he chucked three into his backpack. 

He walked over to the fridge. He felt strongly about the perishables. He didn't like Steve spending too much money or attention there. So freezer first. Good on broccoli, extra bread, some frozen pasta dish or another which Bucky frowned at. Seemed unnecessary. He chucked it into his bag. He took out the note card again and took stock.

Looked in the other half of the refrigerator. A lot of juice lately--probably because he wasn't buying enough fruit. Must be depressed again. Bucky took the juice. Marked off the inventory.

He saw the blank set of paper Steve had been leaving out, and pens. He blinked but corrected within two seconds. Good, he could keep more inventory notes. He took the notepad and pens.

He left the bag in the kitchen and wandered around the living room for a few seconds. Good, Steve hadn't bought anything else. Nothing new that he could see. It would be easier for them to leave when they had to then. 

He wandered into the bathroom. He frowned at the second set of toiletries Steve had started keeping in there. Initially he had liked them, thought Steve was stocking up. But then he noticed Steve never using them, replacing the ones he was using. Taking them hadn't changed anything, either. Steve just replaced them. 

Grumbling, Bucky wandered back out into the bedroom. Steve had left his sketchbook, which made him tilt his head. That usually went with Steve. Bucky looked through it quickly, ripped out a page he liked and folded it into his pocket. He looked around the rest of the room. No new things, good. 

Bucky wanted him to be able to pack up and disappear any time he wanted.

He sat on the bed a moment, looking around the room. He considered the sketchpad again. Opened it to a blank page, grabbing a pencil. But he still wasn't sure he was holding it right. It felt too strange in his hands. 

He jotted out, "Мы должны быть готовы к" before getting upset. "gereed te" He frowned. "做好准备"

He tossed the pencil across the room and growled at it. Still too disorganized. Needed maintenance.

It was okay, he crumpled up the piece of paper and shoved it in his pocket. Steve understood. 


End file.
